


la vita nuova

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, au depending on your pov, post-313
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6563344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Bedelia kills her mysterious host from the stinger, Will and Hannibal take her in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	la vita nuova

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt--"I almost lost you."

Bedelia wakes in a strange but comfortable bed piled high with bolsters and pillows. The room at first appears white, blindingly white, and has neither the antiseptic blandness of a hospital room nor the curated coolness of her own bedroom. Sunlight streams through gauzy curtains at an odd angle.

For a full half-minute after she wakes, Bedelia feels whole. All too soon she knows she’s not and will never be again. The living nightmare—seated at the place of honor, tarted up in that ridiculous gown as her own roasted flesh was served to her—was real. She wants to rage and cry, but something within her, likely whatever drug that blurs the edges of her vision and keeps her remaining limbs feeling heavy, softens the edges of her sharp feelings.

Consciousness is hard to maintain; the darkness behind her eyelids beckons like a lover. She sleeps again, for a minute, for an hour, and when she wakes again, he is there, perched on the right side of her bed.

“Hello, Bedelia,” Hannibal says. He’s aged, she thinks, handsomely of course, his hair now more grey than brown. It’s her first thought, a useless observation. 

“Hello, Hannibal.” She draws the collar of her silk robe closer, the most futile of gestures. The tears that wouldn’t come before well up easily now. She is frightened, she is angry—to have escaped the frying pan and landed in the fire with him.

Hannibal takes her hand in his, worrying the bones of her thumb. When she looks at his eyes, she notices they are wet, too, bottomless as a wounded animal’s. “I almost lost you,” he says at last.

Bedelia lets out a dry, brittle laugh. “Have you brought me here to finish what _he_ started?” she asks, referring to her mysterious host, the pretender to Hannibal’s throne, now dead from a fatal stab wound to the neck.

“That’s all over.” He shakes his head and pats her hand. “I’ve taken you off the menu.”

She doesn’t, she _won’t_ believe him _._ “How can I possibly trust you?”

“You can’t,” a tenor voice snarks back—Will Graham’s. Will slouches in the doorway, twitchy as ever. He’s clean shaven and it makes him appear decades younger. A blotch of angry red skin mars his otherwise boyish cheek. Will wears his scars proudly now, it would seem.  

“Will,” Hannibal cautions, “we discussed this.” He turns back to her, apologetic. “You will have to excuse him—jealousy makes him rude.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Bedelia says, deadpan. Will scowls.

Hannibal wraps a large masculine hand about her shoulders, tugging her into his embrace. His fingers toy with the ends of her now limp curls. She is stiff in his arms, unable to relax into his touch. “The other night…you were magnificent,” he says, beaming as if reviewing the performance of his favorite prima donna. “Very inspired.”

Will begrudgingly translates Hannibal’s thoughts back into the vernacular; “You killed a man with a fork, Bedelia. It made him fall in love with you all over again.” 

Her eyes travel across the room. There is a motorized wheelchair in the corner. She does not feel very magnificent now. A tear slips down her cheek.

Hannibal catches the line of her gaze. “You will have a new leg. A  _better_ leg. The very best doctors. You will walk again, I promise.” He pulls her to his chest and kisses her near the crown of her head, more for his own benefit than hers. Bedelia endures it all, limp as a rag doll in his arms. He holds her too close, too tightly and Hannibal’s teary concern for her all becomes clear—once again, someone has violated his “sister.”

“How did it feel,” Will asks, low and curious, “when you killed him?”

Blue eyes and brown eyes look at her expectantly and Bedelia knows she must provide an answer. If she fails their impromptu oral examination she may find herself back on the menu after all. It’s difficult to remember that night; her memories are doused in opiates and fire and blood. She thinks of a flash of stainless steel in the candlelight, that glorious moment when the tines of her fork, almost an extension of her own arm, bit into soft, tender flesh. “I felt…such power,” she says, woozy with memory. “It was beautiful.”

Hannibal and Will exchange a fathomless look, an entire wordless conversation compressed into a single glance. The muscles around Will’s mouth relax, his eyes melt from cold lake to warm sea. Without being asked, he joins them on the other side of the bed.

Hannibal releases her, to arrange her golden hair against the satin of her robe and the crisp white of the pillowcase. “When we were in Florence, I kept trying to make you take Will’s place, a square peg fitting a round hole. It made us both unhappy,” he says, the truth they never spoke to each other aloud and the closest she will ever get to an apology from him. “You cannot take Will’s place…but he cannot take yours, either, Bedelia. I need you both.” His lips are close to her ear as he says this, breathing his words upon her skin, hoping she will absorb their sincerity as if by osmosis.

“And what does Will need?” she asks. 

“A little peace and quiet,” Will mutters next to her.

Hannibal rebukes him with his eyes. “He needs a friend that isn’t me." He pauses, then adds, "Or a dog.”

She’s sandwiched between both men; one cold and prickly, the other feverishly warm. The most absurd idea pops in her head. “Is it that kind of party?” she asks, hysterical laughter about to erupt from her lips, threatening to burst like the cork from a bottle of champagne.

Will cocks a suspicious eyebrow, slow to get the joke, while Hannibal appears to be on the verge of blushing. “Perhaps. But first you must regain your strength.”

She smooths the bedspread over her lap, all too aware of the empty space where her left leg should be. Hannibal’s words are seductive, they always are. “And what if I disappoint you? I am not…as I was.”

“I will help you become strong again. You will rise from this more powerful than before,” Hannibal tells her, gripping her hand tightly.

Will takes her other hand, petting the sleeve of her robe like she is some silken-covered animal that needs to be soothed. “And I will be here for those times when you feel weak.” His tenderness wounds her, perhaps intentionally. He knows how she hates weakness.  

Hannibal sets a tray before her, whisks a silver cover aside to reveal a steaming tureen of broth. “A simple beef consommé. It will go easy on your stomach and is full of the nutrients you need.”

Bedelia hesitates—she has a strong suspicion of where the “beef” came from. A look into Will’s eyes confirms it.

“You need to eat, Bedelia,” Will says. It’s advice and a warning. He is telling her the rules of their new life. She must eat the food of the fairies if she intends to remain behind the veil with them.

Hannibal lifts a spoonful of broth to her lips, feeding her like a sick child. She blows on the hot liquid and, gripping Will’s hand, takes one sip, then another. It’s salty and savory and slides easily into her belly. It tastes good.

She takes the spoon from Hannibal and swallows mouthful after mouthful, attempting to appease something dark and ravenous that has sprung up within her. She could eat every single cut and sweetbread and suck dry every marrow bone from the man who maimed her and still she would want more.

When she has finished, she sets aside the spoon, dabbing at her lips with a white cloth napkin. Hannibal looks on with pride. “I was so hungry,” she tells them.

Will tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, mirroring Hannibal’s gesture. The two men have begun to blur. “You’ve been hungry for awhile. No need to starve yourself anymore.”


End file.
